Wilson Hayes stared at the email for the third time, certain it was spam.
Subject: Position Available - Aurora Station Ice Core Research
His cursor hovered over the delete button. These things were always scams—too good to be true offers that led to malware or phishing schemes. Except the sender domain looked legitimate. Arctic Research Initiative, a subsidiary of Global Climate Foundation. He googled it. Real organization. Real funding. Real work.
He read the email again.
"Dr. Hayes, your published work on paleoclimate reconstruction using oxygen isotope analysis caught our attention. We have an opening for a glaciologist at Aurora Station, our Arctic research facility in northern Canada. The position offers unparalleled access to pristine ice core samples dating back 800,000 years, with state-of-the-art analysis equipment. Salary is competitive. Housing and meals provided. Six-month contract renewable annually."
Six months. His eyes snagged on that detail.
"Due to Aurora Station's remote location and extreme weather conditions, personnel operate on six-month cycles. You would arrive in late summer and remain through the winter season before rotating out in early spring. The facility is completely self-contained and designed for extended isolation."
Wilson leaned back in his office chair—a squeaky, broken thing held together with duct tape. His office was barely larger than a closet, wedged in the basement of the Environmental Sciences building at the University of Montana. No windows. Fluorescent lighting that flickered. Stacks of ungraded papers on his desk because teaching introductory geology didn't pay enough to live on, and the department couldn't afford teaching assistants.
He was thirty-two years old with a PhD from Cornell, published research in three peer-reviewed journals, and he was stuck teaching freshmen about sedimentary rocks.
His last grant proposal had been rejected. Again. Too niche, they'd said. Not enough immediate applications. Never mind that understanding historical climate patterns might help predict future changes. Never mind that his methodology was novel and precise. The funding had gone to a flashier project involving drones and machine learning.
It was always the flashier projects.
Wilson clicked the attachment: detailed facility information. Aurora Station. He'd heard of it, vaguely—rumors in academic circles about a Canadian government initiative to study Arctic climate change. Private funding, cutting-edge technology, remote location. Not much published research coming out of it, which either meant they were hoarding data or hadn't made breakthroughs worth publishing.
He scrolled through specifications. Three high-rise buildings buried in mountains, connected by enclosed tunnels. Complete infrastructure—living quarters, laboratories, storage, recreational facilities. Population of 40-50 researchers and support staff. Self-sustaining power via solar panels and generators. The facility operated on a strict summer/winter cycle due to accessibility: summer season allowed vehicle convoys through a single access tunnel, winter season locked them in completely due to ice and avalanche risks.
Six months locked in.
No leaving. No resupply. No emergency evacuation possible during the worst weather.
His phone buzzed. Text from his sister Claire: "Dinner Friday? Haven't seen you in weeks."
He hadn't seen her because he'd been grading papers, writing lectures, and revising his latest grant proposal during every free moment. His social life had atrophied to nothing. His last relationship had ended six months ago when Sarah got tired of dating someone who spent more time with ice samples than with her. Couldn't say he blamed her.
Wilson typed a response: "Maybe. Busy with work."
Claire's reply came immediately: "You're always busy with work that doesn't appreciate you."
She wasn't wrong.
He returned to the email. The salary listed was nearly double what he made teaching. The research opportunity was extraordinary—800,000 years of ice cores. That was nearly a complete glacial-interglacial cycle record. The oxygen isotope data alone would be publishable. Multiple papers, potentially. Career-making work.
All he had to do was spend six months isolated in the Arctic.
He clicked reply, then hesitated.
Six months was a long time. What if he hated it? What if cabin fever set in? What if something went wrong medically, or structurally, or—
He stopped himself. That was fear talking. Fear had kept him in this basement office, teaching the same introductory courses, watching younger researchers with flashier projects leapfrog his career. Fear of risk. Fear of change.
Fear of being forgotten.
Wilson started typing.
"Thank you for your email. I'm very interested in the position at Aurora Station. Could you provide additional details about the research focus and specific ice core samples available for analysis? I'm particularly interested in late Pleistocene climate reconstruction."
Professional. Interested but not desperate.
He read it over, made a few edits, and hit send before he could second-guess himself.
The response came in twenty minutes.
He was making lunch—instant ramen in his apartment's tiny kitchen—when his phone chimed. He nearly dropped the bowl reading the email.
They wanted to schedule a video interview. Tomorrow. The position needed to be filled quickly because the summer convoy window was closing. If he was selected, he'd leave in three weeks.
Three weeks.
Wilson set the ramen aside, appetite gone. His heart pounded. This was happening too fast. He should be cautious, ask for more time to consider, do more research.
Instead, he typed: "Tomorrow works. I'm available any time after 2 PM Mountain Time."
The interview was scheduled for three o'clock.
Wilson spent the evening researching Aurora Station obsessively. There was surprisingly little public information. A few press releases about the facility's construction eight years ago, some generic statements about climate research, a handful of published papers from researchers who worked there. Nothing concerning. Nothing exciting. It was a black box.
He found one blog post from a former researcher who'd spent a single winter cycle at Aurora. The post was titled "Six Months in the Long Dark." It was rambling and strange, talking about isolation effects, circadian rhythm disruption, and the psychological toll of perpetual darkness. But the researcher didn't sound traumatized—more like they were processing an intense experience. They compared it to astronauts on the ISS.
The final line stuck with Wilson: "You discover what you're made of in the Long Dark. I found out I'm stronger than I thought."
Wilson wondered what he'd discover about himself.
The next day crawled by. His morning lecture on crystalline structures felt mechanical, autopilot. His office hours were mercifully empty. At 2:45 PM, he closed his office door, opened his laptop, and waited for the video call.
The overhead fluorescent lights flickered. Once. Twice. Held. Wilson glanced up. The ballast had been dying for months—maintenance kept saying they'd fix it. The light stuttered again, casting his basement office into momentary dimness before stabilizing. Wrong rhythm. Wrong pulse.
At exactly 3:00 PM, it connected.
Two faces appeared on screen. A woman in her fifties with gray-streaked hair pulled into a bun, wearing a professional blazer. A younger man, maybe forty, with a neatly trimmed beard and flannel shirt—the scientist equivalent of business casual.
"Dr. Hayes, thank you for making time." The woman's voice was crisp. "I'm Dr. Patricia Nguyen, Director of Operations for the Arctic Research Initiative. This is Dr. James Harding, Aurora Station's chief scientist."
"Thank you for the opportunity," Wilson said, trying to sound calm. His palms were sweating.
"We'll keep this brief," Nguyen said. "We're impressed by your work on isotope analysis. Your methodology is exactly what we need for our current project. Dr. Harding, you want to discuss the specifics?"
Harding leaned forward. "We're sitting on ice cores dating back nearly a million years. Pristine samples, drilled from an undisturbed sheet in the Ellesmere Ice Field. Problem is, we need someone with your expertise to analyze them properly. Our previous glaciologist rotated out last cycle and didn't renew. We've been sitting on this data for four months."
Wilson's pulse quickened. "You have cores from the Ellesmere? I thought that region was too difficult to access for deep drilling."
"It was," Harding said, grinning. "We got creative with helicopter support and modular drilling rigs. The cores are extraordinary. We think we have evidence of the Mid-Pleistocene Transition. Maybe earlier climate anomalies. But we need someone who can do the isotope work to confirm."
The Mid-Pleistocene Transition. The shift roughly 900,000 years ago when Earth's glacial cycles changed from 40,000-year patterns to 100,000-year patterns. It was one of the most significant events in recent climate history, and the mechanisms were still debated.
Wilson tried to keep his voice steady. "That would be incredible work."
"It would be," Nguyen said. "But let's address the elephant in the room. You'd be isolated for six months. No leaving the facility. Limited communication with the outside world due to satellite constraints. It's not for everyone. We need to know you understand what you're signing up for."
Wilson nodded. "I've read about the facility's operational cycles. I understand the isolation."
"Understanding and experiencing are different," Harding said. His tone was gentle but firm. "Aurora is three buildings in the middle of nowhere. You'll see the same forty people every day for six months. The sun disappears for weeks at a time. Some people handle it fine. Others don't. We screen carefully because we can't evacuate you if you have a breakdown."
"I'm aware of the psychological challenges," Wilson said. "I've spent field seasons in remote locations. I'm comfortable with isolation."
It wasn't entirely true. His longest field season had been six weeks in Greenland. This would be quadruple that, in harsher conditions, with no escape route.
But he wanted this. God, he wanted this.
Nguyen studied him through the screen. "Why Aurora, Dr. Hayes? You have a stable position at the University of Montana. Why leave that for six months in the Arctic?"
Wilson considered lying, offering some noble reason about advancing climate science or pursuing knowledge. Instead, he told the truth.
"Because I'm tired of being invisible. I've spent five years teaching introductory courses and writing grant proposals that get rejected. My research is good—I know it's good—but it's not flashy enough to get funding or attention. This position is the opportunity I've been waiting for. Real work. Important work. If I have to spend six months isolated to do it, that's a small price."
Silence. Nguyen and Harding exchanged glances.
"That's honest," Nguyen said finally. "I appreciate that."
"We've seen your publications," Harding added. "You're right. Your work is good. Frankly, you're overqualified for this position. But we need someone who'll commit to the full six months and do the work properly. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"Even when it's dark 24 hours a day and you haven't seen anyone new in three months and you're so sick of recycled air you'd kill for fresh wind?"
Wilson met Harding's eyes. "Yes."
Harding grinned. "Good. Because that's exactly how it feels around month four. But if you push through, the science is worth it."
Nguyen checked something off-screen. "We have one other candidate, but frankly, your qualifications are better. We need an answer quickly. The summer convoy departs in eighteen days. If you accept, you'd fly to Yellowknife in two weeks, convoy up to the station, and settle in before winter lockdown. Contract is six months, renewable if both parties agree. Salary, housing, meals, and travel expenses covered. Medical insurance provided. Are you interested?"
Eighteen days.
Wilson thought about his basement office. His failed grant proposals. His students who didn't care about sedimentary rocks. His sister who he barely saw because he was drowning in grading. His empty apartment. His stalled career.
He thought about ice cores 800,000 years old. The Mid-Pleistocene Transition. Papers with his name on them in Nature or Science. Real recognition. Real work.
"I'm interested," he said. "I accept."
Nguyen smiled. It was the first genuine warmth she'd shown. "Excellent. We'll send over the contract and logistics information tonight. Welcome to Aurora Station, Dr. Hayes. I think you're going to do extraordinary work."
The call ended.
Wilson sat in his office, heart pounding, hands shaking slightly. He'd just agreed to spend six months locked in the Arctic. No backing out now.
His phone buzzed. Claire: "So, dinner Friday?"
Wilson typed: "Sorry, can't. I'm moving to the Arctic for six months."
Claire's response was immediate: "WHAT."
He smiled. For the first time in months—maybe years—Wilson Hayes felt like he was moving forward instead of treading water.
He didn't know he'd just made the worst mistake of his life.
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